Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

The fact, and the intuition or logic about the fact, are severe coordinates in fiction. In the short story they must cross with hair-line precision.

All art, in spite of the struggles of some critics to prove otherwise, is based on emotion and projects emotion.

At midnight tears Run into your ears.

Hate does not present many choices; if hate is your solution, you are fairly certain to hate all phemonena with equal joy and intensity, without troubling to drag into prominence any one feature from the loathsome whole.

The poem is always the last resort. In it the poet makes a world in little, and finds peace, even though, under complete focused emotion, the evocation be far more bitter than reality, or far more lovely.

The Initial Mystery that attends any journey is: how did the traveler reach his starting point in the first place?